It's the Thought that Counts

G

(Disclaimer) Nothing belongs to me. This was again inspired by a bunny from dianethx.

No matter what anyone says, Obi-Wan can't cook.

O

As the ship groaned softly to the platform, Qui-Gon felt a sigh fall from his lips. At last.

The ramp lowered, and he called upon his deepest reserve of control to keep from dashing down it. The mission was done, and after a long shower and steaming mug of freshly brewed tea, he could shed the lingering grime from both skin and memory.

He strode through the Temple, inhaling familiarity and anticipating the completion of his relief. For though the silvery haven of the Jedi was a comfort, it wasn't home. Up the lift and down the corridor, he came to the apartment he shared with his student.

The Master rolled his shoulders, but most of the tension bound in the muscles remained. His mouth stretched in a yawn as he palmed open the door. His mind had already begun to warm to the image of his bed. A good, dreamless sleep was definitely in order.

His return had occurred under the star-dusted sky, so he had not expected Obi-Wan to be standing at the hangar. Indeed, the boy had not been there, a fact that both pleased Qui-Gon, and left him a little heartsick. Obi-Wan needed his rest, of course—but after a strenuous separation from the Padawan, Qui-Gon found he needed to see the youthful face, to meet the bright cerulean eyes with his own.

These wishes were bestowed as he walked into the common room of the apartment. Obi-Wan was wide-awake, fully dressed, and smiling. "Welcome back, Master," He gave a small bow.

"Thank you, Padawan," Qui-Gon replied, eying his companion with more than a little curiosity. The space was well lit and suspiciously tidy. "If you are my Padawan, that is."

Obi-Wan chuckled. "I assure you, I am."

"Hm." Qui-Gon lifted an eyebrow as he scanned the room again. "Then shouldn't this place be one step away from being declared a disaster area? There isn't even anything on the floor. I hardly recognize it."

"I cleaned it, Master."

Qui-Gon feigned a shock-induced chest pain, clutching his hand to his tunic. "What? I thought you said you were allergic to such a thing."

Obi-Wan helped him out of his cloak, then folded it neatly on the back of the sofa. "Well, perhaps I've been cured."

The man sat in his armchair and exhaled heavily. "Miracles never cease." He tipped back his head and closed his eyes, allowing his bones to sink into the cushion.

"Master, you're going to sit there?"

He peeled back one eyelid, to regard the still-attentive form of his Padawan. "It seems that way, yes. Why?"

"Oh, it's nothing." Obi-Wan waved his hand in dismissal of the subject, though his tone betrayed him.

Qui-Gon straightened. The boy was officially acting odd now. "I don't think it's nothing. Now what—" He was paused by the wafting of an aroma, one he had not noticed in the first moments. It was faint, but quickly evolved into a very sharp pungency. If hell had a smell… Oh gods. He's kept some pet and now it's dead. He swallowed, "Now what is it, Obi-Wan? And while you're answering that, also inform me what that odor is."

Surprisingly, Obi-Wan's face split in a brilliant grin. "Come into the kitchen and I'll show you."

Qui-Gon stood, deciding that there were no animal corpses in the apartment. His Padawan wasn't that macabre. Still, the boy appeared too excited about the source of the revolting scent.

He followed Obi-Wan into the small adjoining room, where the hell-stench gleaned significant power. He could actually see it now, floating up from various dishes that were set out on the table. The utensils were half-wrapped in cloth napkins. In the midst of the setting was a vase containing three white flowers.

Qui-Gon smiled at his apprentice. "You've been busy, haven't you, Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan nodded, now fairly brimming with pride. "Sit down, Master."

Qui-Gon did, at his usual place. An empty plate and glass were before him.

"Now, what would you like?"

Truth be told, none of the items from the chosen menu looked appetizing in the least. There was a bowl of curdled green…something, and a ballooned clot of blackened…substance. There was also a pitcher of iced tea, a large portion of it being the sentiment layering the bottom.

Qui-Gon gathered a breath. "A little of everything, please." 'Little' being the operative word.

"Alright." Obi-Wan replied in a near singsong. He dipped a large spoon into the dark, bloated dish, revealing the pink innards as he slopped it down onto Qui-Gon's plate. He added a healthy portion of the green sludge, and poured a towering glass of clouded tea.

"There you go, Master."

Qui-Gon studied the food with hidden fear. I thought last meals were supposed to decadent—or edible. He corrected himself swiftly. Obi-Wan had obviously thrown his heart into preparing the dinner for him; he would eat every bite. "Padawan, you didn't need to go to all this trouble."

"It wasn't any trouble. And besides, you're worth it."

Qui-Gon would have cringed, if it would have gone unseen. Force. Well, there's certainly no getting out of it now. He picked up a fork, and speared it through the black-and-pink concoction. He refused to believe it had made a lurching sound as he dug into it.

All the while, Obi-Wan was watching in excited suspense.

Qui-Gon was only too aware of that, and so popped the fork in his mouth with enthusiasm. Immediately, he regretted it. More than that, he regretted returning from the mission, taking Obi-Wan as his Padawanbeing born. What was in his mouth? The scrapings from the bottom of a well-worn shoe? Sewer contents?

No, as he did his best to chew it, he ascertained that it was some kind of meat. Burnt to a hardened shell on the outside, raw and almost cold on the inside. Maybe he DID have a pet…and this is it. He quelled his gag reflex in order to gulp it down.

Hesitantly, he looked at Obi-Wan, who was rocking back and forth on his heels, hands behind his back.

"Well? What d'you think?"

There aren't words. "It's—" He had to swallow a second-coming, "It's wonderful, Padawan."

Obi-Wan sighed in happy relief. "Oh good. I was afraid you weren't going to like it."

"Of course I like it," Qui-Gon reached out and touched the dimpled chin briefly, "You made it."

Obi-Wan smiled, and Qui-Gon knew that anything was worth doing, if it would light that face in its unique luminescence. Even dying of food poisoning.

"Master?"

"Yes?"

"Aren't you going to eat anymore?"

"Oh. Oh—oh yes." He gripped his fork again, then glanced at the boy. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

And you're still standing? Reciting an ancient prayer, Qui-Gon tried the congealing greenness. Immediately, he clamped his eyes shut. Oh sweet Force, take me now.

O

When his plate was clean of every awful morsel, Qui-Gon folded his napkin on top of it and sat back.

"How did you like everything, Master?"

Fetch me my will. You're out. He smiled, forcing down a sour belch. "It was lovely, Padawan. May I ask where you learned to cook like that?" Because it certainly wasn't from me

"I didn't learn from anywhere. I don't really know what I made. I saw it in a cookbook. It had all these expensive-looking dishes, so I just copied them. I know how you like stuff like that, but I didn't have many credits to work with."

Merciful Force. It's hard to hate someone who acts so damned sweet!

"And I couldn't judge the taste of it, either, since my palate isn't as refined as yours. I knew you'd know if it was good or not."

Qui-Gon fought the nausea firmly. "It was good, Padawan. Very good." He began to stand, "Now, I think sleep is well-past due for us both."

"But wait, Master!"

"What?"

"I made dessert!"

O